


You Could Easily Have Me

by withthepilot



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Community: trope_bingo, Dirty Talk, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Roleplay, Sexual Roleplay, Trope Bingo Round 3, Undercover, Undercover Clint Barton, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-27
Updated: 2014-08-27
Packaged: 2018-02-14 23:23:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2206965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthepilot/pseuds/withthepilot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint can’t sleep. The mattress is too big. He’s gotten used to having another person in the bed, even if that person reeked of bad cologne and suffered from an overabundance of body hair. Plus, that whole scenario with Coulson was the weirdest extraction Clint’s experienced in a while. Ten million dollars, Coulson said, to sleep with Teller’s boyfriend—to sleep with <i>Clint</i>. Crazy talk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Could Easily Have Me

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a long overdue fill for the "indecent proposal" square on my Trope Bingo round 3 card. Yay for amnesty! Thanks so much to [starsandgraces](http://archiveofourown.org/users/starsandgraces) for being a wonderful beta and for laughing at Clint's jokes.
> 
> In the beginning of this story, Clint is undercover as someone's boyfriend and, presumably, having sex that he doesn't particularly enjoy, but he knows it's part of his job. We never see him have sex with that character. Takes place between _Iron Man 2_ and _Thor_ in the MCU. Title comes from a song by Metronomy.

_Extraction tonight, ca. 22:00. You’ll know it when you see it._

Clint’s never been so happy to receive an encrypted text from an anonymous source in his entire life—and he’s had his share. He stashes his burner phone, away from curious eyes, and calls toward the bedroom door.

“Okay, I’m decent!”

Angela enters the lavishly decorated room, carrying a pile of undoubtedly expensive designer clothes.

“Red again?” Clint asks, eyeing the shirt. He motions to his briefs. “Was the red underwear not enough?”

“He likes you in red,” she says, shrugging.

Red is so not Clint’s color. It’s just one of many annoyances he’s had to put up with during this seemingly endless mission. He’s been in deep cover for about two months as Kyle Wharton, Renard Teller’s boy toy, living in Teller’s lavish nine-bedroom house, eating his food, and receiving three mid-morning massages each week, which, okay—maybe it hasn’t been too much of a hardship. 

Teller is a small-time arms dealer looking to reach the big time, putting himself on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s radar in the process, what with all the not-so-secret handshakes he’s been giving out. He’s rich but not quite rich enough to afford the lifestyle he wants to convey. His massive gambling addiction doesn’t help. Teller and Clint spend quite a lot of time together at the local casino, which Clint finds infinitely boring. He considers gambling a fleeting high—not tangible, like the shaft of an arrow sliding against your knuckles. Teller spends and spends, trying to look like a big shot amongst his friends and his enemies, constantly digging himself into a hole and relying on big wins and major deals to lift himself out again. He’s small potatoes right now, relatively speaking, and S.H.I.E.L.D. wants to make sure he stays that way.

Clint can’t wait one more second for this goddamn extraction. Sure, getting his foot in the door and seducing Teller was fun, an actual challenge. But once he’d gained Teller’s trust and bugged the shit out of his place, things took a severe turn toward dullsville. Having nothing to do besides posing as Teller’s trophy boy makes Clint antsy. Unsurprisingly enough, Teller tends to be a possessive asshole. He not only decides where Clint goes and what he does, but also what he wears. And Teller clearly has a boner for Clint in red. 

“It’s not so bad,” Angela says, once Clint’s buttoned the shirt. “You look handsome.”

“You don’t think it’s too shiny? Too flashy?”

“A little. But everyone is flashy at the casino.”

“Don’t remind me,” Clint mutters, adjusting his cuffs. 

“Here, let me help you with that, Mr. Wharton.”

“It’s fine, really,” Clint says. But Angela’s already by his side, fussing with his sleeves, inserting the cufflinks for him.

Angela’s nice but Clint isn’t much for being pampered. He misses his own wardrobe, his shabby apartment, his crossbow, and his handler—not exactly in that order. He also misses the luxury of not being required to blow a guy who hasn’t man-scaped in the past ten years, if ever. At least he’ll have some good stories to trade with Natasha when he gets back. Clint’s managed to avoid penetrative sex for the past two months but he can tell Teller’s patience is wearing thin.

Clint wonders, as Angela snaps the cufflinks, if Coulson will show up tonight. He’d bet anything that Coulson man-scapes on the regular. And he’s not even a gambling man.

“Perfect,” Angela says, stepping away. “Mr. Teller expects you downstairs at seven for dinner. It’s filet mignon tonight.”

“Great,” Clint says. He’s eaten more steak dinners over the past few months than he has throughout his entire life. He never thought he’d see the day when he’d grow tired of steak. Even Coulson wouldn’t believe _that_. He smiles as he recalls several post-mission pit stops of yore, Clint whining that they deserved steaks instead of gas station hot dogs, and Coulson flat-out ignoring him, shoving mini donuts into his mouth behind the wheel. “Don’t suppose we could get some donuts for dessert?”

“Donuts?” she asks, blinking. “I think it’s tiramisu but I could ask…?”

“Nah, I’m just kidding.”

“Oh, okay,” Angela says. Then she sprays him in the face with cologne.

“Jesus!” Clint sputters. “Warn a guy with—wait, seriously? That’s Renard’s cologne. Why am I…?”

Angela gives him a sympathetic look and shrugs. Clint feels vaguely like the branded cow he’s about to eat for dinner.

Seriously, 22:00 _cannot_ come soon enough.

*

At 23:06, Clint is seriously thinking about faking a seizure just to get a change of scenery. The inside of an ambulance has to be more interesting than watching Teller huff and sweat over thousands of dollars he can’t seem to win back. Poker is clearly not the man’s game but he gets an A for effort. Maybe a B+.

Clint’s been glancing around the room all night, looking for any hint of the extraction that’s supposedly coming—which is a little difficult to do, what with Teller’s giant oaf of a bodyguard obstructing his view. After a while, Teller notices that Clint’s distracted. He grabs a handful of Clint’s ass and squeezes, and Clint has to suck extra hard on the straw of his drink so he doesn’t squeal in surprise.

“What’s the matter, baby? You’re supposed to be my good luck charm. I need you to pay attention over here.”

“I’m totally paying attention.” _To the rising urge to cut off each of your grimy fingers and jar and pickle them for a farmer’s market._

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. Soon we’ll go home and we’ll do something a little more fun for you, okay?”

A lobotomy, Clint hopes. “Sure thing, honey.”

“Having a pleasant evening, Mr. Teller?”

That voice. Clint knows that voice like he knows his own name. He tries not to let any obvious reaction show as he turns toward Coulson, wearing what looks to be an _extremely_ expensive three-piece suit. He’s smiling blandly, flanked by two security guards, his eyes flickering down to Teller’s hand on Clint’s ass. He’s completely unfazed, of course. Clint can’t wait to see what’s up his handler’s sleeve this time.

Teller turns and gives Coulson an annoyed once-over while his dumb bodyguard makes a show of cracking his knuckles. These guys are walking clichés. “We are, in fact. What’s it your business?” 

“Well, this is my casino,” Coulson says. “So your enjoyment is absolutely my business.”

“Funny guy,” Teller says, motioning for the dealer to pause before the next hand. “This casino belongs to Harvey Price. Of Price Casinos? Or can’t you read the cocktail napkins?” He holds one up for emphasis, the embossed Price logo catching the light.

“It did belong to Harvey, until this morning. I’m sure you’ve been aware of his recent financial troubles. I bought him out.” He extends his hand in Teller’s direction with his usual fluid grace. “Cole Phillips.”

Teller laughs with a half-sneer, finally removing his hand from Clint’s ass in order to shake Coulson’s hand. Clint feels better immediately. He still hovers close to Teller, playing up his boyfriend role and putting on a skeptical expression for Coulson, who looks… _great_. Sure, he looks great all the time, but that suit is definitely not an item to be found in Coulson’s regular wardrobe. Clint really wants to know where he got it. Also, he wants to know who told him “Cole Phillips” was a good idea, because yikes.

“Cole Phillips, huh?” Teller says, assessing him. “Never heard of you. And, not to brag, but I’m pretty well-acquainted with all the major players in this town.”

Coulson smiles. “Well, I’m not local. I’m international. But, like you, I don’t care to brag. Pardon me, my phone is buzzing.” He pulls his phone from his pocket and holds it at just the right angle and for just the right amount of time to flash the caller’s name in Teller and Clint’s direction. Clint struggles to keep his eyes from bugging.

“You know _Tony Stark_?” Teller asks. “What, you work for him or something?”

“More like friendly acquaintances.” Coulson takes the call. “Hey, Tony. Now’s not a great time. Can I call you back?”

 _Tony_ , Clint thinks with incredulity. _He just called Tony Stark “Tony.”_

Teller huffs indignantly. “Wait a minute. How do I know this is for real?”

“Hm, I’m being rude. Tony, would you mind saying hello to my friend, Renard Teller?” Coulson lowers his phone and presses the speakerphone button, and then—

“What is this, a Make-a-Wish thing?” says a voice that belongs, unmistakably, to mega-billionaire Mr. Tony Stark of Stark Industries. “Fine. But only because I owe you one. Hi, Gerard. Nice to meet you or…whatever. Listen, Cole, as much as I love making small talk with strangers, can we talk about that merger before I get dementia in my old age?”

“Sure, Tony,” Coulson says. “I’ll call you first thing in the morning.” He hangs up and smiles apologetically. “Sorry about that. Tony gets fidgety.”

By now, Teller looks like he’s going to explode from a massive money orgasm. He grabs for Coulson and gives him another vigorous handshake with both hands. “I, uh…I’m sorry I doubted you, Mr. Phillips. It really is an honor to meet you. Maybe we can talk business some time. I’d love to—”

“Well, I have to admit,” Coulson interrupts. “This isn’t just a social visit. I have a small proposition for you, if you’re amenable.”

“Really?” Teller says breathlessly. Clint thinks the guy might come in his pants at any second. “Of course. A proposition. Sounds good. Let’s talk. What kind of proposition?”

At those words, Coulson pauses and shifts his gaze to Clint, giving him a meaningful look. “I’d like to discuss the possibility of spending an intimate evening with your friend.”

Okay, now Clint is in danger of ruining _his_ pants.

“You…want to spend the night with him?” Teller asks. 

“Very much so. You two caught my eye when I was perusing the security feed and, well. He’s quite fetching.” Coulson smiles right at Clint, a sparkle in his eye that makes Clint want to whine. “A man gets lonely, you know.”

“I dunno,” Teller says. He wraps his arm around Clint’s waist protectively, pulling him close. “What’s in it for me?”

 _Us_ , Clint wants to correct him. _What’s in it for us, you selfish bastard._ But then again, why should he be surprised, what with this entire conversation taking place as if he’s not even present? Or maybe he’s getting too deep into character, here. He decides to go with it, glancing away from the other men, pouty but submissive. Coulson doesn’t miss a beat. He reaches out and touches Clint’s chin lightly, bringing his gaze back to Coulson and Coulson only.

Damn if it doesn’t make Clint shiver.

“For someone as beautiful as him?” Coulson muses. He shrugs. “I’d say…five.”

Teller nearly squawks. “Five _million_?”

“All right, ten. You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Teller.”

Clint lets his jaw drop. “I…ten million dollars? For me?” 

“For you,” Coulson says, nodding. “For one night.”

As much Clint wants to keep staring at Coulson, he remembers where his bread is supposedly buttered, and so he turns back to Teller. “Jesus, Ren. That’s a lot of money, but…what about us?”

For a moment, Teller actually looks conflicted. “Uh, excuse us for a moment, Mr. Phillips, sir.”

“Of course.”

Teller pulls Clint a few feet away from the table and as they move, Clint imagines what he’s about to say. _Baby, you know I love you, but I really need the money._ Or, _It won’t be so bad, baby. It’s just one night. I’ll buy you something nice with the extra cash, okay?_

Which is why it takes Clint aback when Teller rubs Clint’s biceps and says, “Kyle, baby, I’m not gonna lie—I _really_ need this money. But if you don’t wanna do this, you don’t have to, okay?”

Clint blinks and tries not to let his surprise show. Maybe Teller has an ounce of decency in him, beyond sharing his steaks. Clint leans in and kisses Teller for the last time. It’s a relief.

“That’s really sweet, Ren. But if you need the money and it’ll help…I’m willing to sacrifice. Even it means being with someone else. As difficult as that’ll be.”

Luckily, Teller doesn’t put up too much of a fight. “You sure?” he asks, and when Clint nods, he grins. “Okay. Just promise you’ll be thinking about me.”

“Of course, baby,” Clint purrs. Then he glances over at Coulson, dressed to the nines. 

_If this were for real?_ he thinks. _Not a chance in hell._

*

After that, it becomes a very civilized affair, at least by Clint’s standards. Coulson and Teller head off to a private meeting room to hash out the terms of their “deal,” and Teller instructs Clint to wait outside with the gargantuan bodyguard. Clint nods, looking as adoring and docile as he possibly can.

About four minutes later, Clint hears Teller raising his voice, which soon escalates to Teller shouting. Then there are noises of a scuffle, followed by a yelp and a thud that sounds unmistakably like a dude hitting the wall. Before the bodyguard can muster the brainpower to react, Clint knocks him to the floor with a roundhouse kick to the head. The bigger they are, etc.

Coulson appears again a moment later, not a hair out of place. 

“Red really isn’t your color,” he says. 

“Is that your professional opinion, _Cole Phillips_?” Clint asks.

Just like that, the op is over. 

Clint doesn’t stick around to watch Teller get carted away in handcuffs. He feels like that would be in poor taste, after months of living with the guy. After the cleanup crew comes and goes, Coulson assures Clint over a cup of coffee in the casino lobby that S.H.I.E.L.D. was able to get loads of useful information, thanks to the bugs throughout Teller’s house. Also, Clint has earned a few weeks of paid vacation, which is music to his ears.

“Please tell me you also brought me a change of clothes.”

“Negative,” Coulson says, quirking one of his mysterious smiles. “But I have an extra T-shirt you can borrow tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“I booked us adjoining hotel rooms. You’re off the clock and I don’t have to head back to HQ until tomorrow. I figured we could both use the rest.”

Clint nods, his eyelids drooping despite the coffee. “Actually, that sounds great,” he says.

But when Clint is under the covers in his nice, comfy hotel bed, he can’t sleep. The mattress is too big. Being able to stretch his limbs feels odd. He’s gotten used to having another person in the bed, even if that person reeked of bad cologne and suffered from an overabundance of body hair. Plus, that whole scenario with Coulson was the weirdest extraction Clint’s experienced in a while. He’s seen Coulson spin some pretty ridiculous tales, but that one was a whopper. Ten million dollars, Coulson said, to sleep with Teller’s boyfriend—to sleep with _Clint_. Crazy talk. He still can’t believe Teller bought it. On the other hand, people will believe a lot of stupid things when that kind of money is involved.

Clint thinks about heading down to the casino for a nightcap when he hears the muffled noise of a television set, coming from Coulson’s room. On a whim, he gets up and grabs his keycard, then heads into the hall. He knocks lightly on Coulson’s door—a familiar, brief pattern to let Coulson know it’s him. Three seconds later, Coulson answers, looking adorable in a Captain America T-shirt, eyeglasses, and boxer shorts.

“Here for the T-shirt?” Coulson asks. Clint looks down at himself and realizes he’s only wearing boxer shorts and socks. Real smooth.

“Actually, I couldn’t sleep. I heard your TV, so I figured I’d come bug you. Since you’re already up.”

“You know me: the eternal insomniac.” Coulson smiles and ushers him inside, closing the door. “Still wound up from earlier?”

Clint wrinkles his nose. “I think I just got used to sleeping next to someone else. Feels weird not to have Teller snoring in my ear. I mean, it’s awesome—don’t get me wrong. But also weird, at least for now.”

“That makes sense. You lived with him for a few months, shared his bed.” Coulson walks back to his bed and turns down the covers, not looking at Clint as he does it. “I’m sorry it took so long to get you out of there. Every time I thought we had enough intel, Hill kept pushing me to hold out for more.”

“Yeah, well, tell her she owes me, big time. I’m talking all-expenses-paid-vacation-to-Maui big time.”

“I’ll send a memo.” Coulson gets into bed and sits up against the headboard, grabbing his StarkPad. Clint feels awkward, standing in the middle of Coulson’s hotel room in his underwear, until Coulson regards him again. “Do you want to sleep in here with me?”

“Like, on the floor?”

“No, Barton, in the bed. Since that’s what you’re used to right now. I know Teller and I have different builds, but…”

“Oh, um.” Clint takes a step forward. “You wouldn’t mind?”

Coulson shrugs. “We’ve shared a bed before. And you clearly need sleep.”

Clint huffs a laugh as he walks over and climbs into the bed. The Coulson-scented bed. Seriously, the guy’s only been using it for an hour or two and it’s already like curling up in Coulson heaven. Clint gets under the covers, arranging a spare pillow beneath his head. Coulson may be sitting up, but Clint is all about getting strictly horizontal—in the sleeping way, of course. 

“Thanks. I don’t know why I’m so tired. The most physical thing I did today was kick a guy in the head. I had trout fucking amandine for lunch.”

This time, Coulson laughs. It’s a win in Clint’s book.

“Extraction is tricky like that. It happens so fast and then the comedown can be exhausting. Especially when you’ve been so deep for so long. It’s like descending from an adrenaline high after running a marathon.”

Clint hums and nods, already feeling tired again. Coulson’s voice is so soothing when he’s being matter-of-fact. It’s like sexy white noise. Or something.

“Still. This is crap. I was awake for fifty-two hours straight, that one time in Palau.”

“And Natasha didn’t appreciate it when you face-planted in her lap at the fifty-third hour.”

“She loved it.” Clint glances at Coulson’s hands, skimming their way across the screen of his StarkPad, and feels a weird pang in his gut. He pushes the feeling down and away, a practiced response. “By the way: How in the hell did you get _Tony Stark_ to go along with that whole thing? Or was that a voice simulation?”

“No, it was Stark. I did him a favor a few weeks ago. He owed me.”

“That explains the suit.”

Coulson smiles. “Dolce and Gabbana. Honestly, I’m not sure I can ever go back to my old wardrobe.”

“So now you’re hanging out with billionaires? Kicking back at Stark Tower, surrounded by beautiful people? Way to have fun without me, sir. ” 

Clint’s voice slurs a little at the end, his body relaxing faster than his brain can keep up. He wants to keep talking—really, he wants to talk about one major thing—but he’s fading fast. Coulson can tell, too. He pauses in whatever he’s doing to turn off the TV. He squeezes Clint’s forearm lightly and Clint makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, which Coulson will probably write off as exhaustion.

It’s kind of the best.

“Go to sleep, Clint. Donuts in the morning, on me.”

“Damn right,” Clint mumbles, already half-asleep.

*

It would be a little embarrassing to wake up with his face mashed into Coulson’s chest. So that’s exactly the position Clint finds himself in, come morning, because that’s how these things go. Luckily, he’s not drooling. Coulson is breathing evenly, his chest rising and falling in a relaxing rhythm, but Clint can tell he’s awake. 

It’s all dangerously comfortable.

“Just gimme ten seconds and I’ll get off you,” Clint murmurs.

“No rush,” Coulson says. “I was going to get donuts, but I didn’t want to disturb you.”

He ghosts his hand over Clint’s shoulder, just enough for Clint to sense it and shiver in return. He swears he can feel Coulson’s heartbeat pick up, just a little.

Okay, now he’s awake. 

“You know, I probably shouldn’t bring this up until after I’ve been properly caffeinated, but.” Clint lifts his head and peers up at Coulson, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “The extraction. Last night.”

Coulson nods, unflappable even with bedhead. “What about it?”

“What was with that whole _Indecent Proposal_ thing? I mean, it was kind of nuts.”

“It seemed like a reasonable plan, given Teller’s financial situation. I knew he wouldn’t be able to turn down that kind of money, no matter how attached he was to you.”

“Yeah, but why involve me at all? You could’ve found another way to offer him money.”

Coulson blinks slowly. With anyone else, that would probably mean nothing, but with Coulson, it’s a tell. Clint knows, and Coulson has to know that Clint knows.

“It seemed like the natural thing to do,” he says. “In terms of entrapment.”

“Natural?” Clint says, sitting up and laughing. “Offering someone ten million dollars to sleep with me isn’t exactly ‘natural,’ sir. Fucking insane, maybe.” Coulson looks like he wants to respond but Clint keeps talking, unable to stop running his mouth. “You were pretty convincing, though. I mean, you were _really_ convincing. For a second there, I almost believed that you meant it. But, like you said, deep cover messes with your head.”

“What makes you think I didn’t mean it?” Coulson says. 

Clint jerks his head up in surprise. He has no idea what Coulson is playing at here but he wants to stay on top of it. He gives Coulson his best shit-eating grin.

“Well, for one thing, I’m pretty sure you don’t have ten million dollars. Sir.”

“You’re right. I don’t. But if I did, I think you would be worth it.”

At this point, Clint’s brain is like a firing range gone mad and all he can hear through the chaotic gunfire is _deflect deflect deflect_. “I’m flexible, but I’m not _that_ flexible,” he says, still grinning. 

“You damn well know you are,” Coulson says, not missing a beat. He leans up on his elbows, scratches his jaw, and, in a rare moment of vulnerability, looks rather…sheepish. “You’re right, though. I could have thought of something else. I admit I was playing into a sort of, well, fantasy scenario. Plus, seeing you like that, with Teller’s hand on your…” He pauses to sigh. “Well. I see it made you uncomfortable, so I’m sorry for that.”

“Wait, I didn’t—hold on, I’m still stuck on ‘fantasy scenario.’”

Coulson gives him a faint smile. “Need me to repeat that?”

Clint blinks and shakes his head to clear the static of lust that’s suddenly taken over his brain. “Sorry, I’m just processing this new information, that you were—if I’m understanding you correctly— _roleplaying_ with me last night. That _is_ what you’re saying, right? I’m not taking a trip through the Land of Sexy Make-Believe?”

“You wouldn’t get very far with just underwear and socks.” Coulson is still smiling, enigmatic and assessing, always assessing. “But yes, that’s a way to put it. I would have told you about it first, but we didn’t—”

“Yeah, yeah, no, the extraction, no time. Totally.” Clint starts shifting around, the knowledge that Coulson was _fucking roleplaying_ making him hyper. And kind of aroused. He should do something about that. Coulson is in bed with him, basically admitting he wants to do sexy things with him, and they’re both wearing a minimal amount of clothing, so Clint should definitely do something about that. He licks his lips and says the first thing that comes to mind. “So what if we picked up where we left off?”

Now Coulson is the one who looks surprised. “You would want to?”

“Yeah, now that I’m caught up. Absolutely. I mean…the money’s already spent, right? Ten million dollars for one night, with this.” Clint reclines on the bed, gesturing to his bare chest. It’s fair to say he has no idea what he’s doing but he’s going with it. “For that much money, you get to call the shots. Don’t you want to collect on your investment?”

Coulson’s eyes darken and for a moment, Clint thinks he’s about to get pounced upon, literally. Instead, Coulson reaches up and strokes Clint’s cheek, shaking his head. Clint swallows, realizing he’s about to be let down easy. He tries not to let his disappointment show.

“I can _hear_ you thinking, Clint,” he says, smirking. “Yes, I want this. But if we’re doing it, we’re doing it right. You’re fresh off your mission, you still need to make your mandatory visits to psych and medical….” He gives Clint a meaningful look and Clint nods, relieved.

“You’re right. That’s important. Okay. So I’ll go get checked out, get tested, and then…?”

“And then we’ll make it happen. I promise. But until then…” He reaches over to the nightstand for his keycard. “Breakfast. Also as promised.”

“While you’re making promises,” Clint says, tilting his head. “Even though we’re not having sex today, can we follow up those donuts with make-outs?”

Coulson exhales, looking every bit the harried and long-suffering agent that Clint knows so well. Then he gives Clint a firm kiss on the mouth that makes him tingle, from his lips all the way down to his toes.

“Maybe,” Coulson says. Then he gets up to look for pants.

Clint licks his lips and grins. “Best extraction ever!” he calls.

*

About two weeks later, Clint is standing in a new hotel room in a new city, sporting a clean bill of health and the same clothes he wore on the night of his extraction, including that damned red shirt.

“Let me guess: You want me to take off the shirt. It’s scarring your retinas.”

Coulson sits in the hotel room armchair, dressed to the nines once again. He regards Clint coolly, a faint smile flickering across his lips. He’s been staring for at least thirty seconds now—just staring, as Clint stands in front of him—and it’s starting to make Clint twitchy. Twitchy and flushed. He can’t remember ever having Coulson’s attention so fully directed at him and only him. 

“Yes, but all in good time,” Coulson says. “I made a big purchase and I want to take my time enjoying it.”

Clint swallows, unable to do anything but watch as Coulson rises slowly and approaches him. He runs his strong, capable hands over Clint’s chest and Clint thinks that the red doesn’t look so bad in contrast with Coulson’s skin.

“Hey, big spender,” Clint sings, his voice wavering. Coulson has to bite his lip so he doesn’t smile. He clasps Clint’s wrists and massages his pulse points, which really does work wonders to calm him.

“If you want to stop at any time, we stop,” Coulson says. “Okay?”

Clint inches closer. “Yeah. Sorry. It’s just…a lot.”

“I know.” He lifts his hands to the top button of Clint’s shirt. “I want it if you do.”

Clint nods and Coulson slips back into character, letting his eyes roam over Clint’s body as he begins to slowly undo his shirt buttons. Coulson’s hands are gentle yet infinitely self-assured in their movements, and the situation in Clint’s pants is becoming a _situation_. He shuts his eyes for a moment but then forces himself to watch Coulson’s face as he works. He wants to remember this, every second of it.

By the time Coulson’s got the last button opened, Clint is close to panting. And nothing has even happened yet.

“Worth every penny,” Coulson murmurs. He brushes his thumb over one of Clint’s exposed nipples and smiles.

He’s going to _kill_ Clint, that much is clear.

“Jesus, Coulson, please do something al—” Clint trails off in a groan when Coulson latches onto the crook of his neck and rolls his palm between Clint’s legs, where he needs the friction most. He bucks into Coulson’s touch and grips the back of his suit jacket, bringing their bodies closer together. God, he just wants to crawl into Coulson’s suit, preferably while he’s wearing it, and live there forever. Coulson does something with his tongue and then something else with his knuckles, and Clint can’t hold back a breathy gasp. “Fuck, fuck…”

“Mr. Phillips, please,” he replies, licking up Clint’s throat. “Or simply ‘sir’ will do. Now, be quiet and let me finish undressing you.”

Well, good goddamn. “Yes, Mr. Phillips, sir.” 

The red shirt ends up pooled on the hotel room floor, and Clint’s pants and belt follow soon after. Coulson even makes a show of removing Clint’s shoes and socks, every touch slow and reverent. Clint has to make a concerted effort not to fall over when Coulson runs dexterous fingers up his shins and the backs of his thighs, stopping only at the hem of his boxer-briefs. 

“What shall I do with you first?” Coulson muses as he gets back to his feet. It’s clearly a rhetorical question but still, Clint tries to convey his answer of _anything you fucking like_ as best as he can. Coulson clearly gets the picture. He leads Clint back toward the armchair and takes a seat. “I’d like to see what that mouth can do,” he says, spreading his thighs. Clint’s mouth waters instantly.

“Yes, sir,” he says, descending to his knees. Clint’s hands never shake and this moment is no exception, as he carefully unzips Coulson’s fly and draws out his stiff cock. The weight of his shaft feels perfect in Clint’s hand, and hot damn, turns out he was right on about the man-scaping. Clint gives Coulson an experimental stroke that urges a small noise from the back of his “buyer’s” throat. Just that one sound renders Clint as hard as a rock. “Will you, uh, guide me?” Clint asks. Not that he needs any instructions on how to suck cock, but he’s enjoying this whole dominant rich guy thing that Coulson’s doing. 

Coulson nods and runs a hand through Clint’s hair. “Of course,” he says, guiding Clint closer to the head of his cock. “Don’t make me come. Just get me ready for you.”

That, Clint can do. He grins and eagerly takes the head of Coulson’s cock into his mouth. He knows he’s good at this—Teller and most of his other sexual partners have always been quick to tell him so—but he wants to be especially good for Coulson. He’s dreamt of this for ages and he wants to knock his handler’s socks off. Clint sucks carefully, laving Coulson’s thickening shaft with the flat of his tongue, humming softly as he takes more into his mouth. Coulson keeps threading his fingers through Clint’s hair, murmuring soft encouragement, and the praise somehow arouses Clint even more. Clint wets two of his fingers and slides them inside Coulson’s open fly, down to his balls, making him grunt in surprise. Clint tastes the tang of precome on his tongue and sighs in response.

“Don’t be bad,” Coulson says, but he’s smiling. Clint pulls off with a lingering lick and grins up at him.

“You knew what you were getting into,” he says.

“Well, I had my suspicions.” Coulson tucks himself back into his pants with one hand, using the other to caress Clint’s jaw. “Stand up for me, Kyle.”

“Clint.” It comes out so quickly; Clint barely realizes he’s even spoken until Coulson gives him a curious look. Clint forces out a laugh, trying to cover so Coulson doesn’t put a stop to this. Clint is _not_ in the mood to stop. “My real name. It’s Clint. Kyle is just an alias. A nickname.”

Coulson continues staring at him, his thumb moving to Clint’s bottom lip. Clint fights the strong urge to bite the tip, to suck it into his mouth.

“And to what do I owe the honor of getting to know your real name?”

Clint swallows, staring back. “You paid a lot of money so you get the real deal.” He can’t help himself—he does nip at Coulson’s thumb, just a tease, and Coulson’s nostrils flare.

“Stand up for me,” he repeats, softer this time. Clint does as he asks. Coulson scoots forward, so that he’s sitting on the very edge of the armchair. He hooks his fingers in the waistband of Clint’s underwear and pulls the fabric down—slowly, very slowly—and Clint watches all the while, fighting the urge to touch Coulson’s face. Clint’s cock springs out, hard and ready, and he shudders when the coolness of the room’s central air hits his flushed skin. Coulson just hums and rubs Clint’s hipbones, staring at Clint’s dick like it’s a Christmas gift.

“I didn’t think you’d do this,” Clint says, flustered. “Sir,” he amends.

“Special occasion,” Coulson says. He pulls Clint closer by his hips, and skims his lips lightly along the side of Clint’s shaft. Clint tries not to gurgle. “Plus, like you said, I paid a lot of money. I think I deserve to sample everything I want. Every part.”

“Absolutely, sir. Nothing is off-limits.”

“Oh, good,” Coulson says mildly. Then he sucks Clint’s cock down his throat. 

“ _Jee_ —zuhh…” Clint reaches out at nothing, grabbing at the air, until Coulson reaches up and grabs his wrist, guiding it to Coulson’s shoulder. Clint clutches at him gratefully with both hands. God, Coulson’s _mouth_. It’s like his tongue is everywhere at once, and the suction and the light graze of teeth hitting just the right spots, and shit, did he mention the tongue? Sure, it’s been a while since Clint’s gotten a blowjob, but this is already the best one he’s ever had—mostly because Coulson sucks cock like a fucking pro but also because it’s _Coulson_. Clint is pretty sure that the entirety of this encounter is going to qualify as the best he’s ever had.

It might also be the fastest he’s ever had, if Coulson doesn’t back off a little.

“Mister, uh, um…sir,” Clint stammers. “I—I’m sorry, but I’m getting close already.”

Coulson pulls off with a wet sound, his lips glimmering in the soft lamplight. “Good,” he says, voice more than a bit throaty. “I was hoping you would come down my throat.”

“I, yeah, I think I can manage that,” Clint says. Then he keens, because Coulson’s being diabolical, sliding a couple of wet fingers down to his perineum. Fuck, but he can’t remember Coulson’s stupid alias anymore. “Be more than happy to, Mister…”

“Coulson.” Clint looks down at him in surprise and Coulson smiles. “You’re not the only one with an alias.” Then he takes him in again, sucking carefully as he rubs behind Clint’s balls, a man on a mission.

Clint ends up coming about twenty seconds later. He never stood a chance. Coulson swallows it down, as promised, and Clint wobbles as he watches through lidded eyes, determined not to buckle. Not that Coulson would let that happen. Once he’s through, he licks his lips and stands swiftly, grabbing Clint around the waist.

“That was good,” he murmurs. He licks up the side of Clint’s neck. “I want more.”

Before Clint can blink, he’s on the bed, flat on his stomach, the breath nearly knocked out of him. The mattress dips as Coulson climbs atop it, and Clint’s eyes bug when he feels Coulson’s strong hands pushing his thighs apart.

“Are you fucking seri— _ohhh_. Oh, _shit_.”

Coulson’s tongue slides all the way up Clint’s ass crack, laving generously at his entrance. Clint bucks against the bed, his cock trapped against the sheets and already stirring back to life, and shit, he’s going to end up breaking all sorts of personal records today, isn’t he? 

“You’re just fucking full of surprises, aren’t you?” he croaks, scrabbling at the sheets.

Coulson bites lightly at his ass cheek, making Clint jump. “If I only get one night, I’m going to make it count.” He runs his hands down Clint’s back and thighs and Clint can feel the weight of his stare. “You’re perfection, Clint. I knew when I saw you on that security feed that I had to have you.”

Clint swallows and arches into Coulson’s touch. “Right from the start, then, huh?”

“Right from the start.”

Clint doesn’t get much more time to dwell on that because Coulson goes back to licking in and around his asshole, and it’s fucking _fantastic_. He hears mewling sounds after a while and realizes he’s the one making them, his biceps not doing much to muffle the noises. He’s also rocking against the bed, nearly back to full hardness, and he feels a wave of dizziness as his mind races to catch up to the unbelievable pleasure his body is experiencing.

“This is…pretty great and all, Coulson, but I’m starting to need your dick in me, something fierce.”

Coulson groans and pulls away from Clint’s crack, kissing his way up Clint’s spine. Clint can feel fabric brushing against his legs and he realizes that Coulson is taking off his suit jacket, which—holy shit. That does it for Clint on so many levels.

“I just went down on you and ate you out,” Coulson says. “I think you can call me Phil.”

Clint lets out a shaky laugh. “Phil Coulson, huh? And you go by Cole Phillips. Clever.”

“Coming up with brilliant aliases isn’t the most important part of my job.”

“And what is your job, exactly?”

“Right now?” Coulson—no, Phil—wraps an arm around Clint’s torso and hauls him up to his hands and knees. “It’s making you come again.”

“Well, let the record show that I believe in you, Phil,” Clint says, blinking past a heavy haze of lust. “Follow your dreams. Reach for the stars.”

Clint hears Phil chuckle, then the squelching sound of lube. He shuts his eyes and exhales. He wants to remember every second of this, in case it never happens again. Phil taps a quick pattern on his thigh—a signal Clint knows well, and it’s breaking character but whatever, he’s grateful—and Clint nods in return. One of Phil’s slender fingers slides into his hole, already loosened from that tongue fucking Phil gave him earlier. Clint shudders at the glide, how easy it is. How right.

“Can’t believe I’m hard again already,” Clint says, an edge of hysteria to his voice.

“What, did you think I’d be bad at this?”

“No, I had a feeling you’d exceed all my expectations as per fucking—” A second finger goes in and he groans. “—Usual. Fuck.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Phil says. Clint realizes he’s broken character _again_ , but for god’s sake, he can barely form a coherent thought with the amazing things currently going on in his ass. “But I’m glad you’re enjoying this.”

“Are you? You’re the one who, y’know, paid the money.”

“More than you can ever hope to imagine.” Phil withdraws his fingers and Clint bites back a whine, listening to him open a condom wrapper. “I’m going to fuck you now, Clint,” he says, like it’s so simple, like he’s delivering a fucking briefing. “Are you ready?”

Clint scoffs as he drops his head forward. “I’m sorry, am I not presenting my asshole enough to convey that?”

“Just ‘yes, Phil’ will do,” Phil says. Then he pushes into Clint and doesn’t stop until he bottoms out.

Clint has always suspected that sex with Phil would be, well, insanely perfect, but the reality is kind of blowing his mind. Phil’s initial thrusts are slow but powerful; like he wants Clint to know exactly what the best dick ever feels like, filling him up over and over again. It’s an effective strategy. Phil lays one hand on Clint’s shoulder and one on his hip, and they feel like brands scorching his skin.

“Hold on,” Phil says after a minute or two, slowing down. He pulls back his hand from Clint’s shoulder. Clint feels fabric brush against his skin and when he turns his head quickly, he sees that Phil is unbuttoning his shirt all the way. He’s seen Phil shirtless only once before—on a mission that went haywire in Bangkok, which resulted in both of them getting trapped in a very small, very hot room. Nudity is a rare number in Phil’s repertoire but when he plays it, he plays it _very_ well.

“Nngahh,” is all that Clint has to say about it. 

“Eloquent during sex, aren’t you?” 

“Gimme a break, I’m working with a half-melted brain, here.”

Phil smiles and yanks off his shirt, throwing it behind him. “Sorry for the pause. Just wanted to get closer.” He demonstrates what he means by plastering himself to Clint’s back. Clint nearly moans at the feel of all that well-concealed muscle, not to mention Phil’s dark chest hair tickling his skin, waking up all his nerve endings. “How do you feel about being manhandled?” Phil asks.

“I feel…pretty good about it? Really good about it? I dunno. Take your pick.”

“Well, how about this?” 

Phil snakes an arm around Clint’s middle and draws him back on his knees to sit upright and lean against Phil’s chest. Clint gasps at the sudden motion, then moans—Phil’s dick is still inside him, after all—and he lets Phil guide him into a position that won’t pull his leg muscles. Clint’s cock bobs against his abs, stiff as nails, and he reaches back to sling an arm around Phil, holding on. 

Clint nods. “Yeah, yeah, no, that’s—” Phil rolls his hips, thrusting again, and the new angle is so deep that Clint wants to cry with joy. “—fuck, _good_ , that’s _so_ fucking good.”

“Good,” Phil says. Like this, he’s all over Clint, holding him steady while exploring the planes of his chest with his free hand, mouthing and biting along Clint’s neck and shoulder. Clint groans and spreads his knees, which sinks him down ever further onto Phil’s cock. Phil grazes a thumbnail against Clint’s nipple and Clint’s ass spasms in return. He swears he can feel Phil’s dick twitch inside him. “You love this, don’t you, Clint?” Phil rumbles into Clint’s ear.

“Yeah, _yeah_. Please, Phil, fuck, I need…”

“You never have to beg,” Phil murmurs. True to his word, his slides his hand down Clint’s stomach and takes hold of his aching cock, sliding his thumb back and forth along the wet head. Clint groans and bucks into his grip. Usually he’d never be able to come again this soon, but he can already feel heat pooling in his stomach. Maybe it’s the angle, maybe it’s the way his body is bowed against Phil’s, the insane level of trust he feels for Phil, or maybe it’s the dirty talk, but—

“I’m gonna come again,” he warns.

“You are,” Phil says, fucking _agreeing_ with him. He tightens his grip on Clint’s shaft, stroking in time with his thrusts, every now and then nudging just so beneath the sensitive head. “You’re going to come for me, just like this. And later, when we’re both up for it again, you’re going to ride me—fuck yourself so I can watch, so I can see just how devastating your face looks when you fall to pieces.”

Clint curses and digs his fingers into Phil’s shoulder, coming all over his hand. _So, definitely the dirty talk_ , he thinks distantly. He feels like a rag doll as Phil kisses his temple and carefully extracts himself from Clint’s body, guiding him down to the mattress. When Clint blinks his eyes open again, Phil is straddling his thighs, removing the condom from his still-hard cock.

“This okay?” he asks. If Clint didn’t know Phil so well, he might miss the look of desperation and lust in his eyes.

“Are you seriously asking for permission?” Clint croaks. “ _Yes_ , fuck, do it, give it to me.”

That’s all the encouragement Phil needs to go to fucking _work_. About twenty seconds later, Phil hisses Clint’s name as he comes all over his stomach and thighs. Clint can’t stop staring at Phil’s face, which is completely taken over by this look of abandon that he _really_ wants to see again, very soon.

“Speaking of devastating,” he says, going for breezy.

“Shut up,” Phil mutters, clearly spent as he all but collapses on his side. Clint laughs, still a little shaky.

“Are we done roleplaying now? Please say yes.”

Phil mashes his face into Clint’s shoulder, muffling his voice. “Pretty sure we were done after I rimmed you.”

“So all that dirty talk and manhandling stuff was the real you?”

“Maybe an exaggerated version of me.” Phil slides his hand across Clint’s chest, stopping dangerously close to his heart. Clint can’t help but smile.

“What about all that ‘right from the start’ stuff?”

“Have I ever lied to you?”

Phil lifts his head to meet Clint’s gaze. He looks peaceful, calm, and steady. Happy. Clint feels like he would do anything for his handler in this moment—which is how he’s felt for a while now, if he’s honest with himself, but it’s still kind of a mindfuck. Clint feels that old, familiar urge to deflect but it’s not as strong as usual.

“Don’t make me get all mushy on your ass, sir,” he says.

“If you’re getting things, consider a washcloth for that mess on your stomach.”

“Hey, you did that!”

“You gave me permission.” Phil smiles and reaches to the nightstand for his StarkPad. “You should get some rest. Go clean up and have a nap while I check my email. Then we’ll order room service and go back to what we discussed earlier.”

 _What we discussed earlier_. As if all that stuff about Clint riding Phil was part of a calm and rational conversation. Clint just can’t with this guy sometimes.

“Okay, yes to all of that, but with one difference.” Clint reaches over to take the StarkPad out of Phil’s hand, putting it back on the nightstand. “It’s our day off, which means you have to nap with me. Please?” He gives Phil a crooked grin. “I never have to beg, remember?” 

“I might reconsider that statement,” Phil says wryly. He kisses Clint’s cheek. “Washcloth, Barton. Go.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” Clint says. He bounds out of bed, propelled by thoughts of an awesome nap with his awesome handler.

And given the way Phil cuddles against Clint in his sleep—Phil Coulson, a cuddler; he can’t wait to tell Natasha—Clint’s pretty sure he’ll never be asked to play someone else’s boyfriend, ever again.


End file.
